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twelvekay trip on a straight road, narrow though it was.
I sighed again, swaying in the saddle. Riding was still not natural to me,
and my legs, though in shape, were still not used to the pony.
All right. Once again, I seem to be missing something.
Young Lerris, answered Justen dryly, you also seem to have forgotten a
few other things, such as letting me know that you are magister-born, that you
carry the staff of a magister, and that you have not chosen your path.
My mouth must have dropped open. I could say nothing. Banister-born? Not
having chosen a path? The staff didn t surprise me, for some reason.
Justen shook his head sadly. Once again your origin burns through.
But&
Nowhere else do they send out their best, untrained and untested, to find
their way in a world that either ignores them or tries to destroy them.
Destroy?
Yes, destroy. You are from Recluce the beautiful, the isolated, the
powerful. The island nation that has humbled every fleet sent against her,
destroyed every challenge contemptuously, and refused to take any real
responsibility outside her own boundaries.
But&
No& it s not your fault, not yet, and I suppose that is why I will help
you, young Lerris. Then, at least, I will have someone to blame if Recluce
continues to ignore the world. Not that poor Justen can do anything about it.
Wait a moment, I protested. You ve been around two centuries, and you
let Antonin do all his fancy tricks and you never raised your staff, never
said a word. Why not? How can you blame Recluce? Or me?
He just sighed. So much potential, and so much ignorance& where, oh where
shall I start? He eased Rosefoot closer to Gairloch.
The road ahead seemed to merge into a much wider, but heavily-rutted
highway.
Is that the main road?
It is, but the next decent place to stop is about three kays farther
along. So I ll try to answer your questions& while I can.
This time I took a swallow from the canteen attached to Gairloch s saddle,
after looking in all directions. The main road was empty, as were most roads
in Candar late on a winter afternoon. I tightened my cloak against the slowly
rising wind. Most of the snow, small dry flakes, had blown clear even before
we had left Hewlett. In Eastern Candar, the snow is light and seldom sticks,
unlike the high ranges of the Westhorns, where winter means snow upon snow
until even the evergreens are buried to half their height.
Even if you are from Recluce, you know that there is order and there is
chaos. Magic is either, or some of both. White magicians follow chaos. Black
magicians follow order. And gray magicians try to handle the best of both, and
are regarded with great suspicion by both black and white.
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White is chaos, but why?
Lerris, do you practice being obtuse? Justen sighed. White is the
combination of all colored light. Black is pure because it is absent all
light.
That was something that, strangely, no one had ever mentioned-not that I
remembered, anyway. I nodded for him to continue as we finally picked our way
off the old road from Fairhaven, or Frven, and back onto the main road. I
could once again see dusty hoofprints, a day old or more, in the chalky dirt.
The problem with both white and black magic is their limitations. Most
white magicians are just a little bit gray. No one can handle pure chaos, not
anyone born since the Fall of Frven. There are a number of black magicians. I
can tell that from their actions, but a truly good black magister cannot ever
be discovered unless he or she wishes it.
I must have frowned.
That s because of the limitations. Look& think of it this way. Too much
chaos and even the internal order of your body becomes disorganized. That s
what happens, in a way, when you become old. White magicians all die young,
and the more powerful die younger, unless they switch bodies like Antonin.
Switch bodies? But how? I kept sounding stupid, and I hated sounding
stupid. But Justen was answering some questions, more than old Kerwin had.
He has worked an arrangement with& several local rulers. He provides
certain services, and he can have the body of anyone condemned to die. He s in
his fifth body now, but I doubt he can survive more than one more transfer.
Justen stopped speaking and looked up the road, as if measuring the distance.
He swayed a bit in the saddle, and I realized he was pale as fresh-bleached
linen.
You see, young Lerris, with each transfer it takes longer to rebuild his
body image and energies because his soul ages, even though his body doesn t.
Chaos disrupts the soul itself.
I could see the peaked roof of a wayfarers hut and the cleared space
surrounding it, as we plodded around a gentle curve-a refreshing change from
the deadly straightness of the road into and out of Frven.
The hut looked empty, though well-kept. Neither surprised me, for Justen
had indicated Weevett was but a few hours ride ahead, and most travelers
would prefer a warm inn to the best of huts.
We should stop. Justen said nothing besides the three words, and I
realized that it took all his energy merely to remain in the saddle.
Nothing more than four stone walls, two shuttered windows, a door, a
thatched roof, and a small hearth-but it was swept clean and empty, for which
I was grateful.
At the same time I wondered why some poor soul had not tried to appropriate
the place, since it was far more hospitable than the ramshackle thatched
wattle-and-daub dwellings outside Hewlett and, presumably, Weevett.
Even though I half-dismounted, half-fell off Gairloch, the pony remained
fast as I turned to look after Justen. The wizard in gray was gray all over.
He said nothing as I helped him off Rosefoot and onto the stone bench outside
the hut.
With short gusts, the wind was picking up, swirling scattered pieces of
dried and colorless straw around my boots, puffing dust and scattered
snowflakes at Justen s face.
I found a short axe in Justen s pack, poorly-sharpened but adequate, and
carved out some shavings to start the fire. There looked to be a small creek
downhill from the hut, but Justen needed the fire more than he needed the
water.
The flint and axe-steel were sufficient; but then, I ve never had trouble
starting fires.
Justen watched as I unstrapped a small kettle from his saddle kit.
Going to the stream.
He might as well have been asleep, for all that he looked at me. For some
reason, I stopped and took my staff from the makeshift sheath on Gairloch. The
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pony tossed his head once, and chuffed. His breath was like steam. I swung the
kettle in my right hand and grasped the staff in my left, though the water was
almost within sight of the hut.
As I scrambled down the path, worn down by years of usage, I felt watched.
But then, one way or another I had been watched all day.
Crack.
Thunk!
A figure in rusted armor lay at my feet, between me and the stream bank.
The staff had moved in my hand, reacting before I had seen more than a
flicker of movement.
This time I studied the overhanging trees, and the underbrush. But now
there was a sense of emptiness.
Hssssssss&
As I looked back down at the fallen figure, mist began to rise, slowly at
first, then quickly, forming a small luminous whirlwind. The shaggy, man who
had been inside the armor was gone, and only the rusted metal links and few
plates remained. Then they began to crumble in on themselves, and they too
were gone.
For somebody who hadn t been sure about magic, I was seeing a lot. Or I was
losing my mind. I preferred to think that magic was real.
Scooping up a kettle full of water, I hurried back to the hut. Justen had
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